


Licensed To Kill

by azziraphale



Category: Men's Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 13:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16682281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azziraphale/pseuds/azziraphale
Summary: For an alleged sharpshooter, Iker doesn’t seem at all aware of his surroundings. Not like Gerard, who occasionally glances over his shoulder in the guise of throwing an offhand, inviting smirk at a nearby patron. Gerard, who has golden cufflinks embedded on his wrists and uses hand gestures to flash them off, much like any other person who is attending the charity gala, making sure to establish his wealth. That he belongs here. Not like Sergio, who keeps his form relaxed but ready, his fingers always only one swift motion away from the gun hidden under the hard lines of his suit. No, Iker’s eyes are hazy and unfocused and brittle at the edges, wispy brown hair cradling his face. And Sergio wants to make him look.Or, the alternate universe in which Sergio Ramos and Gerard Piqué are agents hired to neutralize Iker Casillas, and things don't go too smoothly.





	Licensed To Kill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edenhazard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenhazard/gifts).



> disclaimer: i don't know ANYTHING about football and i was just asked (read: told) to write this out for a friend because apparently the football fandom is severely deprived. and because, you know, writing a nearly 6K fic is something one does casually. anyway, C, i guess this is for you.

Iker Casillas, or so the dossier reads, has his body half-draped over a nearby barstool, his blatantly inebriated gaze fixed on nothing in particular. In front of him is a squat condensating glass of something amber, probably whiskey on the rocks, with an unnecessarily fancy sphere of ice quarterly submerged in the liquid. It clinks against the edges of the glass as Iker’s lithe fingers holds onto the rim and absently swirls it. The whiskey sloshes, catches the glare of the near-neon bar lights, and continues its cycle around the glass. Then around again.

Sergio stares at him.

For an alleged sharpshooter, Iker doesn’t seem at all aware of his surroundings. Not like Gerard, who occasionally glances over his shoulder in the guise of throwing an offhand, inviting smirk at a nearby patron. Gerard, who has golden cufflinks embedded on his wrists and uses hand gestures to flash them off, much like any other person who is attending the charity gala, making sure to establish his wealth. That he belongs here. Not like Sergio, who keeps his form relaxed but ready, his fingers always only one swift motion away from the gun hidden under the hard lines of his suit. No, Iker’s eyes are hazy and unfocused and brittle at the edges, wispy brown hair cradling his face. And Sergio wants to make him _look_.

“ _For somebody who’s wanted for forty counts of murder, and who’s about to murder probably the most important man he’ll ever put a bullet in, he doesn’t look like he cares much about anything at all._ ” Gerard voices out Sergio’s exact thoughts in the comm, smug voice masked through the gadget nestled in his ear.

“Not caring is probably a huge factor to be had when killing people for a living.” Sergio mutters,

“ _Yeah? And what would that say about us?_ ” Gerard laughs lowly, “ _It’s not exactly all daisies and dandelions when saving the world._ ”

“Your humbleness never fails to astound me, ‘Geri.” Sergio says,

“ _Whatever, just don’t fuck this up_.” Gerard reminds, “ _You may be the agent in charge for this mission, but don’t think I won’t take over if I have to_.”

“You just want the credit.”

“ _No, I just want Mourinho to not be fucking dead. But it’s good to know you think so highly of me, though._ ” the words are snide, but when Sergio glances back at Gerard, his head bent and dark hair casting shadows over his eyes, his lips are quirked at the edges.

“You know I love you.” Sergio says in passing as he makes his way around him, nearly tripping on the man’s feet when he suddenly extends his legs as Sergio walks by. “You’re a dick.”

The dossier Mourinho has provided for Iker doesn’t contain much information. Sergio knows that Iker grew up in Spain, Mόstoles to be exact. He knows that he’s in his late twenties, and is currently untied to any and all relations. The stakeout team informs that the man lives alone, in different sporadic locations, and has no routine whatsoever. Of course, all that should be anticipated from a hitman, especially one known for his sharpshooter abilities. Sergio for one knows that those particular set of skills are currently very favorable in the market.

As Sergio comes up to the bar, one hand tucked into the pocket of his dress pants and the other loosely fiddling with his tie, he makes a mental rundown of his and Gerard’s premeditated course of action. Sergio was to distract Iker, whether by seduction (considering he’s taken by Sergio, which, Gerard assures, will be a possibility since “everyone is always taken with you”), by manipulation, or by violence. There’s a small alcove by the restroom at the west end of the ballroom, near where they currently are. Once Iker is secure, Sergio is to shoot him, making sure that José Mourinho’s safety is definitively taken care of for the night. The agency knows that there would probably millions of others out for the politician’s head even by the end of the night, but scoring the death of Iker, somebody so idolized in the black market, would surely send off a warning for other potential hitmen.

And besides, if Sergio is lucky, he could coax the name of Iker’s employer out of his lips before the bullet hits his brain. But that isn’t so much of a priority since their time frame is considerably slim. Mourinho is due to speak in an hour, so it is no doubt that Iker’s next step would be to finish his drink and head for the head of the ballroom, where the bustle and clinks of heels are mainly situated.

Sergio sets himself a respectable distance apart from the sharpshooter, angling his body towards him enough to show intrigue, but not enough to warrant the thought of making a move. At the suddenly occupied space, and the momentary obstruction of the bar lights on his whiskey, Iker looks up.

Sergio isn’t prepared to be met with a pair of striking brown eyes, the color of them as warm and bright under the yellow lights as the amber sloshing in his glass. His pupils are sharp, set and trained on the agent with a peculiar hazy concentration, as if he isn’t sure what he is looking at- or who. Iker’s head is slightly tilted to the side, gaze half lidded and eyebrows angled downwards. Then he’s blinking, and he’s shifting in his seat, tight fitting suit following his motions sinuously. It’s black, with an olive green tie nestled almost absently between its lapels. Forgotten, or not something considered worthwhile. Sergio finds himself liking how the muted color complements the brown of his hair, almost gold under the lights.

“Hello.” Sergio nods, letting slip a smile. Iker returns it crookedly, angling his body towards him now, hand still poised on the rim of his glass.

“To you too.” Iker swings his glass forward, then sets it down again. Sergio is relieved when he continues the conversation. “Are you bidding tonight?”

“People our age? _Please_.”

Iker shrugs, “For the children, and whatnot, right?”

Then he raises the glass to his lips and tips his head back, baring his neck only momentarily, corded with muscles and shadowed with the inklings of a beard, before he sets it down. The ice clinks more pronouncedly this time as he twirls the empty glass with his fingers. Sergio watches the sharp lines of his jaw tense as Iker swallows the whiskey down before turning back to him, his smile now more genuine and graced with teeth, as if the whiskey has somehow infused a little more of leniency in him. There’s still something dull about the shape of his eyes, almost dampened in the way of guardedness. Like he doesn’t believe in any of this.

Sergio suddenly wants, very badly, to be able to say his name out loud.

“I’m Sergio.” he says, and extends a hand for Iker to take. “And you?”

“Iker.” the sharpshooter takes his hand, grip as firm and callous as Sergio expects it to be, but does more than the customary up-and-down-shake when he holds him there for longer than needed. They are seated closer after the conversation, their shoulders only a few inches apart, and the handshake brings them even closer.

Sergio could see the darker specks of brown in his eyes in this near-proximity, taking in the way the fabric of Iker’s suit stretches over his biceps as he flags down the bartender.

“More of the same.” and then Iker looks over to him, “And whatever the gentleman wants.”

“Whatever it is you’re having.” Sergio props his chin on his palm.

“So be it.” Iker laughs, and turns properly to Sergio again once the bartender has gone. “Just warning you, I have shit preferences on alcohol. I’ve accustomed myself to liking cheap beer from the dollar store. I’m desensitized to even the worst of champagne.”

“I wouldn’t know better. I don’t usually drink.”

Iker whistles, then laughs. “That’s something we _definitely_ don’t have in common.”

“Then keep talking until we find something that we _do_ share.” Sergio insists, and Iker grins at that.

“ _Wow. How smooth of you_.” Gerard’s voice crackles through the earpiece. Sergio ignores it, because it’s all he can do. “ _Wonder how he’s hoping to shoot a guy when he’s drunk like that_.”

“Where are you from?” Sergio says instead,

Iker shrugs, “Nowhere special. You?”

Sergio’s chest twinges at the distrust. Which is stupid, because murderers and sharpshooters have a long reputation of that- and for good reason, too. But he’s disappointed that he couldn’t come across as trustful enough to be an exception to it. That he doesn’t seem as innocent or genuine. Or that’s what he tells himself.

“Barcelona.” he says, tone less enthused after telling a lie himself, but he forces a smile. Then the drinks come, two squat glasses identical to Iker’s previous drink, a fresh sphere of ice sitting in the middle of it.

Sergio takes a grateful sip of it.

When he places the glass back down, he finds Iker’s gaze on him, something thoughtful and searching passing through his features. Once caught the sharpshooter is sheepish, the guardedness of his face coming back almost immediately. He rubs an absent hand against the back of his neck, unconsciously ruffling the brunette hair that starts there.

“Sorry, I-” Iker looks at him, then back down at his glass. He picks it up and swirls it. The ice clinks. The sound is almost maddening at this point. He bites his lip. “I’m from Mόstoles.”

“Oh.” Sergio brightens at the honesty, but something tugs at his heart that says he should be better at covering his emotions, the ones not meant to be shown. That he should feel at least a bit regretful of letting that slip. A sense of failed duty. “It’s fine, I-”

“No, it’s just that I don’t trust easy. Or want to talk about myself much.” Iker shrugs, and takes another definitive sip of his whiskey, the movement almost deprecating. “You shouldn’t take it personally.”

“And you want to trust me?” Sergio says, part hopeful and part teasing. He doesn’t know which overpowers the other.

Iker leans forward, and the playful glint in his eyes shine as brightly as his smile, “Can you tell me if I should?”

And it just makes the mission _that_ much harder to finish when Sergio has to eventually, and inevitably, put a bullet through his skull.

_“Ew. Okay. I’m not gonna be here for this. Yell if you’re about to die._ ” Gerard mutters, and his end instantly goes silent.

Sergio grins, and he likes the spark of mischief it sets off in Iker, the way the unconfidence and disbelief almost lifts completely.

“You know what? I think we’ve finally found what we have in common.”

“And what is that?”

Sergio leans in into the space between them, and Iker’s eyes are darker than they were before. He whispers, like it’s their shared secret. “We both want to get out of here.”

“Touché.” is all Iker can say before Sergio pulls him to motion, his fingers cold from where it held the glass of whiskey,

The stools of the bar are left rattling, and Sergio could feel Iker’s breathy laugh by the cup of his ear, disbelieving and intoxicated. It’s the sharpshooter who grabs him by the arm as they walk briskly, the touch listing upwards to his shoulder, resting there, getting more familiar. It’s neither firm nor gentle, like he’s holding on almost for support.

“ _You move fast,_ ” Gerard says suggestively, and Sergio could almost hear the smirk in his voice, “ _I told you! Nothing to worry about_.”

They reach a great clearing, marble tiles vast and gleaming where they’re hit with yellow outdoor lights. The ballroom opens to a high-arching veranda, the greek architecture giving away to heavy black beams, but still matching the marble-veined balustrades. They’re two floors up, and the barely lit garden greets them below, hedges and all. Their dress shoes make a different sound on the veranda floor, more pronounced and sharp.

Iker turns around then, a hand gripping the black, narrow railings, and looks up at Sergio. The sharpshooter’s other hand is still on his arm, but the grip is not meant for steadiness anymore. More hesitant. Like he’s anchoring Sergio to him, as if Sergio could even bring himself to move away.

Sergio doesn’t realize how short Iker actually wears his hair, the color more black than brown now under the night sky. He doesn’t realize until Iker’s ducking his head, looking resolutely down at his brogues, but with nothing to hide under. The sky is black. There are no stars.

“Are we far enough away for you?” Sergio asks gently, and even under the darkness Iker’s cheeks visibly pinks, the tips of his ears reddening. God, are all sharpshooters this endearing?

Iker leans forward and bumps their shoulders together. “Shut _up_.” he says, voice small.

Sergio leans in, too. This time he crowds the dark haired man against the balustrades, arms bracketing Iker where he places his hands on either sides of his body. Iker’s lips part momentarily, like he wants to say something, but quickly shuts them again when Sergio brings them closer. The divot between his eyebrows still say he’s disbelieving, almost like he expects that Sergio would retract at any given moment and laugh at him for being so wistful. But he doesn’t shrink back.

“Yes, I’m going to kiss you.” Sergio laughs, and it’s shared in the breath between them. “Only if you’ll let me.”

Iker looks up then, the hand he has on Sergio’s sleeve tightens. His expression is almost pained. “Please.”

Sergio is the one who closes the remaining distance between them, as giddy with haste as somebody touch-starved. Not that he expects anything otherwise, but it still feels surreal when his hands move up to cup the soft skin behind Iker’s neck, even more so when he allows himself to traverse into soft brown locks, choppy to the touch. He feels Iker leaning in to the light grip, meeting him in between, and in return he pushes back. A feeling of warmth smatters in his stomach at their newfound proximity, and Sergio curls a protective hand around Iker’s waist, fingers rough against the fabric of his suit. The touch keeps him in place, and truthfully, upright. The kiss is soft and languorous.

Iker’s hands feel both tentative and sure when Sergio welcomes the comfort of fingers carding through his hair, and another grasping him by his tie to yank him down. He makes a surprised noise, mostly sounding impressed than anything, and Iker laughs into the kiss. It’s something unrestrained and open-mouthed. And then they part.

Sergio hopes he matches the twinkle he finds in Iker’s eyes, the edges creasing with mirth. He rests their foreheads together, noses bumping against each other. At least he knows that they have twinning grins, both of them only mildly out of breath and their hands positioned behind each other’s necks. Sergio doesn’t want to pull away.

“Your hair.” Sergio comments almost dazedly, looking up to see tendrils of dark locks sticking up where they shouldn’t. Iker laughs.

“ _Your_ hair.” he says, and reaches up to ruffle it even further. “You look better like that.”

Then Iker tugs them closer, closing the space again, and then he tips backwards, relying solely on Sergio’s hand that darts up to cradle his back and the arm Iker has slung around his neck. They’re half hanging off the railings, and Sergio plants his hand on a nearby wall to steady them both. Under the night, they are illuminated solely by the mellow lights, and cool air coils around their warm skin. Sergio smiles into his lips at the move.

“Ballsy.” Sergio hums when they part again, Iker upright again with a gentle hand on his chest. The sharpshooter shrugs. “You like a little danger?”

“You have _no_ idea.” Iker mutters, unknowing that Sergio, in fact, has _every_ idea. He brings us up and arm and looks, almost like it is habitual, at his watch. His face darkens. “ _Fuck_. I have to go.”

“What- Why?” Sergio says, almost whining. He does, in fact, know where he’ going. And it’s such a shame it all has to end soon enough. “Are you bidding?”

“No- I,” Iker looks down, then up again, sharply looking into Sergio’s eyes. He takes a loud exhale. “There’s a very bad man present in the gala. I have my orders to stop him. He’s about to do something very fucking deadly, and you should make your way out while you can. It’s not safe.”

“Not safe?” Sergio echoes, eyebrow furrowed. He’s never heard about any potential threat, not in his dossier or elsewhere. Then again, it is very likely that Iker is lying to cover his own ass. “What do you mean?”

Iker sighs, a frustrated hand over his mouth, “Forget I ever said anything. Look, you’re not a bad guy. You don’t deserve to be here when shit hits the fan. And I mean really dangerous shit. I mean _explosive_. I was told to keep all civilians safe, and, well, you count as one I guess.”

Sergio steps back, away from Iker with a steadying hand on the railing. Keeping civilians safe? Explosions? What happened to Mourinho just giving a speech? What is he up to? Who is Iker actually?

“I have to go.” Sergio says, already taking steps back. He and Gerard had been recruited by Mourinho himself. They were a safety protocol, he had said. They were sent out by the government, with intel relying solely on whatever Mourinho would spout to them. Is it Iker who is unreliable, or their very source itself?

Iker nods, but he doesn’t truly understand. “Yes, you really do.”

Sergio runs, not towards the exit, but towards the mouth of the ballroom, where a crowd has begun to piece together, seating themselves on the round tables provided by the venue. The candles perched on top of them glisten warmly, the shines of porcelain plates mimicking their flickers. He sees somebody with an earpiece and a clipboard, clad in a sharp black tux and bowtie,  and learns that he does not recognise him at all. He’s tucked by the corner of the stage, waving in people carrying priceless art towards a queue. This is the bidding, Sergio realizes. It’s about to start.

Sergio was supposed to have access to the dossiers of all the personnel present in the event. The man should be someone he has already committed to memory. _Unless_. Unless his role isn’t provided in the dossier.

“Excuse me.” Sergio says, and the man turns sharply to him, an annoyed look in his eyes, but supporting a veil of patience for the sake of formality. “Can you tell me what your job is for the event?”

“I’m in charge of rundown, sir. I navigate the speakers.”

“Great. And when will the speech by Señor Mourinho start?”

“Señor José Mourinho is present in the audience, but he will not be speaking.” the man says calmly, but there's a pinched look of confusion between his brows

“Right, and who are you?”

“Lucas Vazquez.” He informs placatingly, just to hurry Sergio along. “We are about to start the bids soon, so if you will excuse me-”

Sergio is left standing alone, gazing blankly past the sculptures and paintings and portraits. What’s the point of Mourinho lying to him about making a speech when Sergio will certainly be able to tell? What’s the point of saying that something will happen when Sergio will be able to tell when it doesn’t?

Unless. Unless Sergio isn’t meant to _be here_ when it starts.

Iker talked about an explosion. What if it was targeted for him and Gerard? And every other politician present in the gala? By establishing an official presence with the government by agreeing to take on its security detail, Mourinho is practically shining a light on himself so no one else would. Make people believe he’s one of the good guys because he’s being protected by them. He says he’s in danger, says that he’s in need of protection. Why did he not get either Sergio or Gerard to guard him instead of both of them going on a chase for Iker? There are so many holes in this operation and they are slowly sinking.

How did Sergio not realize sooner that nothing makes sense?

“Gerard?” Sergio nearly yells into his earpiece, starting into a run again. He has to head back to Iker. Tell him the truth. Ask how he can help. Where is Mourinho even? Nothing greets him at the other line. “ _Gerard_.”

Sergio passes the empty bar, the idle bartender not even bothering to clean up Sergio and Iker’s whiskey glasses. They stay there forlornly, perspiring. A memento of when everything made sense. He feels a shudder run up his spine at the thought, and he glances at his own watch. That had only been half an hour ago, and that only left another half hour to stop Mourinho.

Sergio stops short when he reaches the veranda.

He’s greeted with the sight of Iker on the floor, a hand gripping the balustrade like he’s trying to raise himself up, his face battered with a split right down the middle of his bottom lip and a dusky bruise starting to bloom on the highs of his right cheek. There’s a messy gash above his eyebrow, like he’s bumped his head on something, and there’s a tint of purple there too.

“Iker-”

“ _Sergio_.” a voice growls, and Sergio looks to his right, meeting Gerard’s locked jaw and gritted teeth.

There’s a small knife in his white knuckled grip, and a handgun wrapped inside his other hand. He’s breathing hard, the exertion showing through his nose, and the button of his suit is undone and ruffled. When he turns, there’s a large smatter of a bruise on his entire left profile, and his sleeve is riddled with splotches of crimson, the golden cufflinks out of sight.

“This your friend?” Iker slurs bitterly, a shaking hand pressing against his abdomen.

“Where the fuck have you _been_ ?” Gerard hisses, only sparing a seething glance Sergio’ way before righting the level of his gun, jabbing it more pointedly in Iker’s direction. “Why isn’t _he_ dead yet?”

“Why am I not dead yet?” Iker mutters disconcertedly, voice small and confused. Sergio wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t darted to Iker’s side, crouching down beside him and placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, it was a misunderstanding, really-”

“You were working against me?” Iker asks, expression returning to guarded. There’s a hazy, unfocused look about him that mingles with the furrow of hurt in his brows. It disappears as quickly as it comes when he scoffs, leaning away from Sergio’s touch. “Were you ever going to say anything? Or did you run away because you’re too much of a coward to finish the job?” His tone is accusing, and his voice climbs with rage. Indignancy.

Sergio thinks about that now- about his fingers curling around a trigger. The thought conjures an idea, but provides no further imagery. He can’t imagine it, levelling a gun at Iker’s head. Not ever since they sat down and drank, and laughed and kissed. Especially not since he’s connected all the dots. Sergio realized he’s conceded his past hostility against Iker long ago, has already forgotten what his true motives were.

“Is that what this is about? You can’t pull the trigger?” Gerard sneers, a touch of disappointment waves over his features, but a morbid and salacious kind of satisfaction shines more thoroughly. He levels the gun downwards, directly in line with Iker’s temple. He grins. “You’ve just given up the wheel, Sergio. I _meant_ what I said.”

Sergio brings up a hand, like it could stop a bullet, and Iker faces the agent resolutely, jaw clenched so tightly he might hear his teeth grind against each other. But he makes no action to move. Just half-stands, half-braces himself against the railings. Something trickles past the crevices of the fingers he has pressed against his abdomen, and Iker clamps down on the wound. Sergio knows he’s too pained to move. When Sergio offers an urgent hand, Iker makes a low sound in his throat and shakes him off.

“Gerard, _no_ , let me exp-”

“What could you _possibly_ say to explain yourself-”

“Mourinho is not who you think he is.” Sergio says, snapping up to face Gerard. He keeps his features passive. “We don’t have much time to stop him. I believe he’s about to blow up the place. Gerard, I’ve checked with the rundown guy -there _is_ no speech. Why else would he lie about that unless he was sure we wouldn’t be there to find out?”

There’s a defining, contemplative silence, stretched taut and tense like a telephone cord. Sergio strains for any type of reaction from him, but Gerard stares calmly, only the twitch of his jaw indicating at his perplexion. There are thoughts running through his head, but Gerard values caution and accuracy over anything. He values being right, placing his money on the right bet. But there isn’t time for Sergio to go into full detail. Time is chasing them all, and at this point it might only be minutes before Mourinho will be gone for good.

Gerard’s aim is steady.

Iker starts to slip beside him, the strain from keeping himself upright starting to make him bleed more profusely than before. He lets out a groan, and Sergio reaches for him as he slumps, turning his back for half a second to Gerard. But that seems to be the only fault he needs to break the silence.

“You’ve gotten too comfortable with the enemy.” is all Gerard says before the shot resounds, blaringly loud.

The adrenaline kicks in before anything does, and Sergio uses the hand he has on Iker’s shoulder to push him to the ground, bringing his momentum with him. He has an arm up to curl around the sharpshooter’s head, pressing them closer together so the limb would be enough to cover them both. But the fall can’t have been quicker, and the bullet chases them, warped to a blur with time. Sergio feels a stabbing pain on his side, slicing through skin and muscle and sinew, and eventually it takes hold. He lands heavily on the ground, half-draped on Iker’s body as he bites back a cry.

“Jesus, _fuck_ .” Iker swears as he rights himself, this time _he’s_ the one holding Sergio up by the shoulders, who leans with tight eyes against him. “You _idiot_ . You fucking idiot. He was about to miss. _God_ . You couldn’t have just- _Fuck_.”

“I’m sorry.” Gerard’s apologetic face comes to view, lined with worry, crouched down as well, “Shit, Sergio, I didn’t mean-”

“He’s telling the truth.” Iker says hastily, his shaking hands completely ignoring his own wounds and has opted instead to press firmly against Sergio’s side. The words come out in a barely discernible blur. “I have all the files and contacts to confirm it. It’s all true. I was sent to stop him before the place fucking _blows_. He tells you that there would be a speech, and to keep your eyes out for me, to stop me before then. He only wanted you both out of his hair while he handles the logistics. You don’t have accurate information, nevermind complete.”

“I can’t-” Gerard starts, and then stops. He rakes a gangly hand through his hair. It’s almost impossible to track the truths, or the lies. “Make me believe you. Tell me something.”

“What’s the name of the Rundown Manager?” Sergio grits out weakly, hissing out a curse when Iker’ fingers press down harder.

Gerard stares at him blankly, mouth parted like he’s scanning through all the possible names in his head. It goes on for a few moments. Nothing comes up, of course, and he shakes his head.

“Lucas Vazquez.” Sergio and Iker says at the same time, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

Gerard straightens and nods jerkily, not used to missions going awry. Out of habit, he straightens his suit, pulling it taut, straightening his cuffs. The blood splotch goes unnoticed. He meets Sergio’s eyes as he holsters his gun under his suit, and he frowns.

“I’m sorry.”

Sergio only half-manages a shrug, “I’ve had much worse. Don’t give yourself too much credit.”

Gerard gives a conciliatory smirk, then turns to Iker. “Any idea where I can find Mourinho?”

“Somewhere in the lobby.” Iker replies, his eyes still cautious and distrustful. His hands are still on Sergio, one clamping over the wound and the other at the small of his back, steadying him. “You have around twenty minutes left.”

“If you hear three shots, it’s safe to come out.”

Gerard exits swiftly, and Sergio lets out a shuddering groan. The pain doesn’t subside, only flares over time like an indignant flame. Iker casts him a worried glance as Sergio presses to into his side, revelling the warmth.

“We have to get out of here.” Iker says almost apologetically, “Someone might be coming because of the gunshot.” Then he adds grimly, like he was forced to contemplate it, “And in case Gerard doesn’t make it.”

There’s a set of stairs that’s attached to the side of the alcove, nestled by the left of the veranda. Iker hauls him up by the waist, his teeth gritted to suppress the bite of his own wound, and they hobble down the steps with only the waxy glow of lights on their backs. They’re close enough that Sergio could feel Iker’s sharp breaths against his ear, their postures sinking against each other like two lazy pillars, entirely co-dependant.

Iker lowers Sergio as gently as he can against the outer walls of the building before he takes a staggering breath and shakily takes his place beside him. Their shoulders are touching as they face the garden. Sergio had only been able to see the tops of the hedges and trees when he had been at the veranda, skimming past the dark green heads and the shallow bushes. It had seemed small from up there, everything menial, until he’s toe-to-toe with a towering oak, and suddenly the tables are turned. He tips his head back to rest against the grain of the walls, aged with moss and dew.

“I’m fine.” Sergio says when he feels Iker’s arm come around him, trying to look into his wound. He swats him away, “ _Iker_.”

“Just let me take off that ridiculous suit.” Iker murmurs, and even though it’s soft the sound is stark against the silent backdrop of the garden, colored only with the crinkles of rustling leaves and chirping grasshoppers. It’s whispered in the space between them.

Iker’s hands are careful as he unbuttons the front, and Sergio lets him do whatever he decides because he has to admit, the rigid hemming of his suit is starting to feel constricting. Soon enough, the inky black garment is being pushed off his shoulders, pried out of his arms. Sergio takes a gratuitous, relieved breath.

The air is near-silent again as Iker looks closer into the wound, careful fingers picking apart the frayed edges of his white button-down, now gruesomely drenched in crimson. Sergio makes a sound when Iker brushes against exposed flesh.

“Leave it.” Sergio says,

“It’s not fatal, didn’t hit anything important.” Iker says apologetically, and then he holds up the suit. “I could probably make a tourniquet out of this.”

“You should probably look into yourself first.” Sergio says, regretting that he can’t return the favor.

“It’s fine. The cut isn’t deep at all. The knife mainly struggled against my suit, it’s rather thick.” Iker continues to reach over and manhandle the suit into something usable, before he coils it around Sergio’s waist and performs an intricate knot. He grunts at the pressure, but he knows it’s essential.

And the conversation peters out from there, transgressing into something comfortable and fatigued as they lazily gaze past the flowered hedges and the stout, mellow lamps. There’s a knotted feeling in Sergio’s chest, something akin to helplessness and guilt, that crawls its way up to his throat. He taps his fingers against the soft grass and bites down on his bottom lip.

“Do you think he’ll make it?” Sergio asks, and there must be something feverish about it because Iker turns at his voice,

“Hey.” He sounds concerned and assuring as he places a hand on his knee, “I’m sure he has nothing to worry about. Besides, Mourinho would have taken care of security by now, judging from the way no one checks on the gunshot. All Gerard has to do is find him, and Mourinho won’t be expecting him, so that’s a leverage.”

Sergio appreciates his words, but it does nearly nothing to ease the worry in his chest.

“Not used to missions going bad?” Iker asks,

Sergio hums noncommittally, “We usually get it done fairly easily, especially if it’s just Gerard and I. And we’re mainly used for security detail. It rarely gets violent.”

“Don’t think too much about it. You were double-crossed, so it hardly counts against your success rates.” Iker gives a faint laugh, “Rule number one, don’t lie to your security.”

Then he starts unbuttoning his own suit, his hands still slightly trembling, but he manages without much hassle. Iker shrugs out of the black garment, and Sergio sees the defined planes of muscle shifting under his white shirt, decorated with a messy streak of crimson across his stomach, no longer blossoming further. When Iker tilts his head back against the wall like Sergio did, the sharp lines of his jaw greets him, shadowed by the start of a stubble. His neck has a smear of red on it, presumably from Sergio’s blood that Iker has wetting his fingers. The slouched posture is an echo of when they were at the bar, under the grisly bright lights.

“We’re a bit roughened up.” Iker says when he turns to Sergio, who resolutely looks away like he hadn’t been watching him the whole time. “Not a good way to end a first date.”

“A bit?” Sergio says, looking into his eyes, darkened by the night, and ignores the way he wants to question ‘ _first date_ ’ instead.

There’s another well of silence between them after Iker hums, the wispy breaths of wind filling it in. They shift closer, unintentionally, until they’re nearly breathing each other’s air.

“Listen, I know it’s sort of inappropriate at the given moment, but can I-” Iker’s tongue flicks over his lips, eyes darting down to glance at Sergio’s own, “may I-”

Sergio closes the gap between them. The kiss is fervent, and contemplative, and a bit restricted, but neither one of them pays that any mind. Iker goes rigid at the sudden closeness, and for a moment Sergio’s heart stops to think whether he has misread the situation, before the sharpshooter’s body melts against his, a rough hand traversing up Sergio’s nape to curl into his hair. Sergio grabs him by the shoulders, hauling them closer as if his life depended on it, and angled his face upwards to deepen the kiss.  Iker makes an appreciative sound and does the same, his stubble like a pleasing burn where it rubs against Sergio’s skin. They groan as the wounds protest against their rough proximity, but that too gets ignored.

“By the way,” Sergio says when they part, “I’m actually from Seville.”

“ _God_.” Iker laughs breathily in between the kiss, “Best. Mission. _Ever_.”

Then they’re startled apart by the ringing of three bullets, fired in quick succession.

“I guess that’s our cue.” Iker grins,

And Sergio leaps forward to continue.

**Author's Note:**

> not gonna lie but I wrote out sergio and iker as enjolras and grantaire before i switched over their names. i changed their physical appearances and everything. the amount of dedication I poured into this is frankly heartwarming so where is my compensation?? 
> 
> kudos, comment, and all that. hope y'all enjoyed!


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